In Pursuit of Happiness and Arthur Kirkland
by Germerica
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, a broke fresh-out-of-college graduate with something to prove to his family, finally lands a dream job at a chic, new international journalism company. However, all good things have their setbacks, and the setback's name is Francis Bonnefoy; Arthur's scandalous, young, attractive boss who wants to manipulate that dream for his own desires.
1. Bonnefoy's International Journalism, Inc

**Dear Reader,**

**This Fanfic contains homosexual relations.  
This Fanfic is rated T for a reason, and the rating is susceptible to increase if I see fit.  
This rating is mostly due to crude language, not vulgar actions. If you don't like anything you've read here, then I ask that you don't read. Now that you have been informed, please either leave this page or enjoy the story.**

**Sincerely,  
Germerica**

* * *

Arthur Kirkland's life wasn't perfect, but it was peaceful.

Scratch that.

Arthur Kirkland's life _used_ to be peaceful; that was before that lewd, deranged, sex-obsessed, overbearing, controlling arsehole of a _frog _pranced into his life and turned it upside downwith his threats of ruining poor Arthur's reputation.

Oh? You want to know the whole story of Arthur Kirkland? It all started several months ago...

* * *

... It was an overcast day in New York City. Yet the streets were still bustling with people trying to get to work by any means possible. Car horns blared, there was the occasional police siren, and even from his 5th floor apartment Arthur Kirkland could hear indistinct conversations of the people below. None of this was bothersome to him, however.

Arthur loved an overcast sky because it reminded him of the British Isles, his home, and though he'd never admit it aloud, he loved the muffled noise. The constant background sound gave the nostalgic feel of living in London with his parents and four brothers.

Though New York City wasn't London (and never would be), Arthur felt at home. He had come to America a little over 9 years ago for University. While in college, Arthur had studied business. Though he wasn't very fond of the field, he had agreed to study it in accordance to his father's wishes. However, unbeknownst to his parents, he took journalism classes in order to satisfy his own secret desire to write. Arthur didn't like being sneaky when it came to the education his parents dished out good money for, but it was _his _education after all!

Yet it was the combination of business and journalism degrees that drove Arthur to set his alarm the night before for 7 o'clock sharp in the morning so he would have plenty of time to prepare for a much needed job interview with a magazine company.

The company printed a pop-culture magazine of sorts that began printing around the same time Arthur had left his cozy country home in London for University in The States. In the short period the magazine gained unfathomable popularity among the younger generations of young Americans (mostly young adults aged from 25 to 18.) However, the company wanted to expand its business, and that was precisely why Arthur received a phone call from the company only days ago.

"We want a fresh, new face," The excitable person said on the other side of the line, a cheery, Hispanic sounding man with a slight lisp, "We want to interview young journalists who have a firsthand experience of today's culture." he said.

Arthur recalled how shocked he was and knew he simply _must _be dreaming, but he quickly agreed to the appointment at 9am sharp at the company's main building.

Arthur agonized over what to wear (which wasn't like him, mind you, he simply needed to make an outstanding first impression), but he finally decided on a pair of clean-pressed khaki slacks, a crisp white button up shirt, and a crimson blazer. Arthur adjusted the coat's lapel in his small bathroom mirror and couldn't help but admire how good he looked. He glanced at the clock and smiled triumphantly when the numbers read 8:30am. Not wanting to run the risk of being late, Arthur grabbed his apartment keys and trotted out the door.

* * *

The outside of the company's main building was nothing special in Arthur's opinion. It was simply an old building that had some minor repairs made to it over the years such as some windows getting replaced and a security system getting installed. However, the inside of the building was a completely different matter. The interior was incredibly tasteful and bright. The walls were a creamy off-white color decorated with the artwork of local artists. The carpet was a soft maroon and it was complimented by the cherry-wood coffee tables that had neatly stacked magazines on them and creamy brown leather armchairs.

Once over the shock of how cozy the interior was, Arthur made his way to the reception desk. A woman sat behind the mint-green tinted glass and cherry-wood counter at a thin desktop computer. Her eyes were trained on the screen, her fingers deftly flying across the keyboard, but she had a phone held between her ear and left shoulder. When she noticed Arthur approach the desk, she smiled politely and held up on finger in a "please wait one moment" motion as she finished her conversation on the phone.

"I'll be sure to relay your message to him, sir. And your name-?" she nodded and expertly wrote down the message and name on a note pad -" Thank you for your call, Mr. Williams."

The woman hung up the phone and immediately turned to Arthur with a bright, sunny smile. Her voice was sweet and friendly even though her accent was unfamiliar to Arthur, "Hello sir and welcome to International Couture's main building. How may I help you?"

"Yes ma'am, my name is Arthur Kirkland and I'm here for an interview." He said just as he had rehearsed all morning and a good majority of the evening before.

At this she perked up and clasped her hands together giving him a wide smile, "Oh yes! I was told you would be coming in today~" She said, her voice almost song like, "You're rather early, actually. However, I don't think Mr. Bonnefoy will mind..." She chattered on.

"Mr. Bonnefoy?" Arthur asked, "I'm sorry, but I spoke with a Mr. Carriedo on the phone..." Arthur stated.

The secretary laughed lightly and responded politely, "Oh I'm sorry! Mr. Carriedo is our recruiter. He searches out potential candidates, but it is Mr. Bonnefoy who does the interviewing. No one is hired or fired without his approval." She said.

Arthur's stomach dropped. This wasn't what he had prepared himself for. He was prepared to talk to the Hispanic man from the telephone, not some unknown interviewer who apparently was very important to the company if he decided who did and didn't get the job. Arthur suddenly wasn't so sure he could do this, but he had to because the secretary was already on the phone with the mysterious interviewer.

"Hello, Mr. Bonnefoy. Arthur Kirkland is here for his interview... Yes sir, I'll show him to your office. I have a message for you from a Mr. Williams... Mr. Williams... Yes I'm positive that's what he said his name was...I think he said it was Max... Mark... Oh well, I'll get it sometime! Anyways, I'll be up in a few."

She then hung up with a small sigh that was quickly replaced with a smile.

"Please follow me." She said after placing a sign on the desk that said _Secretary is out for a moment. Please have a seat.__  
_

Arthur swallowed hard and followed the bubbly secretary to the elevator. He hoped that the interviewer wasn't too intimidating... he really needed this job.

* * *

The elevator doors opened on the top floor of the building and Arthur followed the secretary down the hall to a pair of frosted glass doors that read "Francis Bonnefoy" in elegant, cursive letters. The woman gently knocked on the door, and a smooth voice beckoned them in. She opened the door and gestured for Arthur to enter. He entered the room and the first thing eyes landed on was the man who assumed to be Mr. Bonnefoy.

The man sat in a luxurious looking chair at a sleek, sophisticated metallic desk with a glass top in front of a window that took up the entire back wall overlooking the city. He wore a stylish white suit with a blue button up shirt. He had slight stubble on his chin and his clean, blonde hair was carelessly swept back into a ponytail. He was the most perfect example of disheveled elegance Arthur had ever seen.

Mr. Bonnefoy gave Arthur a warm smile and stood up in order to give Arthur a friendly handshake. Arthur accepted the gesture with what he hoped was confidence.

"Ah, Monsieur Kirkland," He said, his smooth voice fit perfectly with his face, "what a pleasure to finally meet you. Antonio has told me many good things about you~" Mr. Bonnefoy said with a wink.

Arthur gave a polite yet curt nod in response, forcing a small smile onto his face. This man was French. Very French. What kind of a cruel trick of fate was this? Arthur had assumed the name Bonnefoy was a surname and nothing more; a symbol that the man came from French descent, but was American with a love for Europe. But no. He just _had _to be _French;_ that meant Arthur would have to be extra polite in his responses to keep his mannerisms in check.

The two stepped back from the handshake, both taking a moment to examine the other.

"Please, take a seat." Mr. Bonnefoy said, directing Arthur to a leather armchair behind the slightly unnerved Brit.

Arthur took the seat and sat quietly for a moment as the secretary (whom Mr. Bonnefoy referred to as Elizabeta) handed his might-be future employer a sheet of paper and a folder. The Frenchman thanked her, and dismissed her. She gave Arthur on last, warm smile as if mentally wishing him good luck before she left, gently closing the door on her way out.

There was a moment of awkward silence that followed after the click of the door resounded throughout the room. Arthur had to fight the urge to fidget as Mr. Bonnefoy stared him down from behind his desk. It was rather bothersome really. He just sat there wordlessly with his elbows propped on the glass top and his stubbled chin sat atop his laced fingers. A little smirk graced his lips as his blue eyes roved over Arthur as if he were a piece of meat.

"So, Monsieur Kirkland, you seem to have quite the talent for writing," He began.

Arthur released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding until he heard Mr. Bonnefoy chuckle; this succeeded in causing Arthur's cheeks to color an unattractive ruddy shade of red.

"When Antonio told me he had found someone for me to interview right out of college, I was skeptical. However, just because you're talented, doesn't mean you're committed." He said, slowing scooting his chair back so he could stand.

Arthur tensed as Mr. Bonnefoy leisurely strolled over to where Arthur sat. Much to Arthur's discomfort, the man then began to _circle _Arthur's chair.

"Do you know how many hopeful journalists applied for this spot, Monsieur Kirkland?" He asked slowly, his pace round and round the chair never faltering.

"No, sir." Arthur replied nervously. Now that he thought about it, Arthur never remember applying at all, which struck a paranoid nerve in his mind. Was this man humoring him with an interview? Was he really so sick that he would raise Arthur's hopes just to dash them out?

"Forty-eight." Mr. Bonnefoy said smoothly, finally stopping behind Arthur's chair. "But none of them had quite the bravado you did when it came to writing. They all seemed like it was tedium. A chore. And reading their works felt like reading a text book. Dry. Bland. Boring. Then one of my associates brought me some of your articles that were given to him by one of your professors; and I decided to take a chance."

Arthur felt long fingers drape over his shoulders, causing him to jump. His heart beat sped up and it didn't help that those fingers began to gently massage the muscles that had tighten from the extra stress of the interview.

"Do you want this job, Arthur?" Mr. Bonnefoy purred, his voice was smooth like an aged wine.

Arthur was silent. Did he? Did he really _want _it? Arthur knew he _needed _it, but did he want it? Then again, when would an opportunity like this come back around?

"Yes, sir."

"Then it's yours." Mr. Bonnefoy chirped, removing his hands so he could give a sharp clap.

"R-Really?" Arthur stammered, standing to meet face-to-face with his new employer. _This couldn't be happening... This was just too good to be reality. _

"Oui."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Bonnefoy!" Arthur said, all previous doubt gone from his mind, his spirits feeling higher than they had in a long time.

Mr. Bonnefoy took Arthur's hand and gave him another warm shake, "Please do not be so formal, Arthur. Call me Francis." He said with a wink.

"Uh.. Sure." Arthur said, unsure how to register such forwardness, but he chose to categorize it was friendliness.

"Excellent. I expect you to report to your new office on Monday morning at 8 o'clock sharp."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Bon- erm- Francis...?" Arthur said somewhat uncertainly. The thought of being on a first name basis with his superior was foreign on Arthur's tongue.

"Good. Dismissed." Francis said with a slight was of his hand.

Arthur nodded and left in a slight daze, but not so much that he didn't forget to shut the door on his way out. However, he didn't notice the smirk on Francis' face and the dark glint in his eyes as Arthur left.

_Author's Notes_

_Well hello hello hello! What's this? Something other than RussiaxAmerica in my collection of scribbles? I think so!  
_

_I love FrUk though, so I had to write about them, and I can totally see Arthur as a broke-ass college student in desperate need of a job to prove to his family that you can pursue what makes you happy and be successful... and I can see Francis as the douchebag who manipulates that dream for a quick lay or two. _

_Hope you enjoyed; please review~_


	2. Orientation

_Chapter Two: Orientation_

Arthur had been preparing all week for his first day at his new job. It had been a long time since Arthur could honestly say that he was excited for something, and he wanted this to work; even if his employer was French.

A few days after the interview, while Arthur received an email. It wasn't often that Arthur got mail of any kind unless it was a notice from landlord that his rent was due. So, naturally, Arthur excitedly opened the electronic letter. His excitement grew when he realized it was from Mr. Corriendo. What had Mr. B-erm-_Francis _(Calling an employer by his first name didn't feel right on Arthur's tongue) said Mr. Corriendo's first name was again? _Oh yes, Antonio, _Arthur thought upon closer inspection to the sender's address. He carefully read the email.

**Dear Mr. Kirkland,**

**Beinvenido to Bonnefoy International Journalism, Inc! I am please to inform you that your employee orientation will be held on Monday, the 9th day of September of this year, at 8:00AM sharp. Your orientation day will qualify for one work day and will be counted on your first pay check which will be mailed to you three weeks after your Orientation. Make sure you are not late. **

**Employees of Bonnefoy International Journalism, Inc. have a dress code..**

At this, Arthur raised one magnificent brow. A dress code? He kept reading, his mouth a hard line.

**...which consists of nice, fine-pressed outfits. For example, a clean dark suit with a starched undershirt and well polished shoes. **

Arthur blanched. He didn't own any suits. Not any new ones that is; he had one suit he wore for his college graduation, but it was loaned to him from his older brother Charlie and the pants legs were too long and the coat was too broad in the shoulders. He'd look ridiculous. Arthur bit his lip. Perhaps he could email Antonio and arrange something; at least until Arthur could buy a suit or two.

**If a suit is unavailable to you immediately, then any other fashionable, business-appropriate male clothing can be worn. **

**We look forward to your contributions to the company. **

**-Mr. Antonio Hernandez Corriendo**

**_{This is an automated email. Do not reply}_  
**

A sigh of relieve escaped Arthur's lips. He wouldn't need a suit right away. He shut off his email and computer. He knew he'd need to get some sleep before the big orientation.

Arthur stood up from his desk and stretched after gently shutting his laptop (another hand-me-down, this was from his second-eldest brother, Patrick). He slowly slipped out of his day clothes and put on some sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. He brushed his teeth then curled up under the blankets of his bed. He groaned when he realized he hadn't set an alarm, and grumpily rolled out of the already warm cocoon to set his clock for 6:30AM. He snuggled back under the blankets and his eyes began to slowly slide shut. It was the first time Arthur had climbed into bed before 10:00 PM since his interesting interview.

* * *

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. Gooood Morning New York! The time is currently 6:30AM, and the skies are partly cloudy with a 20% chance of rain.._

Arthur awoke groggily and used a heavy, sleepy hand to shut off the obnoxious alarm radio. Whoever is up, perky, and ready to discuss the weather at 6:30 in the bloody morning should be flogged.

Arthur drug himself out of bed into the cold air and forced himself to go into the bathroom. He heated up the shower and picked out his outfit as he waited for the water to warm. He decided on a pair of black slacks, a white dress shirt, and a black blazer that he found in the back of his closet. He hoped it resembled a suit closely enough.

Arthur took a very brief shower and fought with his hair. It normally just stood out in spiky disarray, and the more he fought with it, the more feminine he felt, so he eventually gave up. He then trudged into the kitchen and ate a light breakfast (an English muffin with some strawberry jam) and a cup of piping hot English tea. He glanced at the clock, then quickly brushed his teeth, grabbed his keys and strolled out the door at 7:30.

He was officially on his way to his first day of his new career.

* * *

Arthur couldn't help the proud smirk that crossed his features when he strolled through the automatic doors of the well decorated edifice at exactly 7:50 AM. Arthur Kirkland was many things, but late was not one of them and Arthur prided himself on his punctuality.

The spacious lobby was sparsely populated as usual, so Arthur didn't mind going straight to the secretary's (Elizabeta was her name, right?) desk. Just like the first time Arthur walked in, she sat at her desk typing away on her computer, only this time she wasn't talking on the phone rather talking to a young man.

He had a very easy, languid look about him;even his wardrobe was casual, yet he his very being made it seem appropriate. He wore slightly wrinkled white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up tucked in to a very trim pair of navy blue dress pants. He had his forearms folded across the corner of the tall receptionist's desk, propping him up in a casual manner. His hair was as white as snow as what his skin; his ruby eyes held a wicked glint as he spoke to Elizabeta, who was trying to ignore him. Arthur had stopped progressing towards the desk, unaware if he should interrupt.

"Come on, Lizzy. Just one date. I'll take you out for a night on the town! It'll be fun~!" He said with a wink.

"For the last time, Gilbert," Elizabeta said without sparing him so much as a glance, "I'm going out to dinner with Rodriech." She sounded very irritated.

"The piano pansy?" Gilbert gasped, ruby eyes widened, "You need a _real _man, Lizzy! Someone manly and awesome like _me_" The albino stated, standing up straight.

"Don't you have work to do?" she snapped, finally turning to face him; her long, brown hair flew dramatically over her shoulder as she did so.

Gilbert stepped back with his hands held up in surrender, "I swear, Elizabeta Herdervary, one of these days you'll accept my offers." He said before storming off to the elevator.

She sighed and shook her head, but her smile instantly returned when she saw Arthur standing awkwardly in front the desk.

"Oh! Mr. Kirkland! I'm so glad to see you again! I was just elated when I heard you got the job! I knew you would!" She gushed, her olive eyes sparkled with truth.

Arthur tried to hide his blush as he spoke, "Oh.. T-thank you, Ms. Herdervary. I'd glad I got the job, too." He said.

She laughed lightly, a pleasant sound, "Oh don't be so formal, call me Elizabeta or Lizzy. You''ll be seeing me too much to refer to me as my last name."

Arthur returned her smile, "In that case, call me Arthur." He said.

She nodded, "Arthur, got it. Now, I suppose you're here for orientation, correct?" Arthur nodded. "Then I'll page Mr. Corriendo right away."

It wasn't even five minutes before Arthur heard the familiar, cheery voice of Mr. Corriendo.

"Hola, Senor Kirkland! It's so good to see you in person!" He greeted, extending his hand with a wide, lopsided grin.

Arthur accepted the hand and was slightly taken aback when the Spanish (Arthur decided he was Spanish when he heard the slight lisp in the accent) man pulled him into gripping hug. Arthur's eyes bulged and he subconsciously clenched his fists at his sides. Arthur was by no means a very affectionate person; he had grown up with five brothers who were set out to make him tough and two parents who were rarely home due to work. Therefore, hugs or any other type of embrace made Arthur very uncomfortable. He was relieved (though his anger still remained masked behind a semi-passive smile) when Mr. Corriendo released him.

"Likewise..." Arthur muttered, his cheeks had darkened to a dark crimson from the unwanted, unnecessary, and _very _unprofessional behavior.

"Excellente!" He said, painfully oblivious of Arthur's discomfort, "Let's get this orientation started shall we? First, we'll go see Feliks. He's our resident fashionista~"

"Fashonista...?" Arthur said uncertainly. He pulled at his collar; Arthur often pulled at his collar due to a nervous habit that started sometime during his childhood.

"Si~! He will be your fashion consultant. Don't worry, you won't have to change your wardrobe, we just need our employees to show off their style with some of the company's brands." Mr. Corriendo explained.

_So Bonnefoy has a clothing line as well? _Arthur thought.

Arthur followed Mr. Corriendo to the elevator. They stood in awkward silence for a few seconds until they reached the fourth floor. The Spaniard led Arthur to a room a few doors down the hall on the left that looked like a runway model's dream.  
There was a long catwalk in the middle of the room made that had a dark, glossy surface. The right wall was lined with shelves that contained accessories of all kinds from rings to sunglasses. The back wall contained a multitude of shoes for both men and women. Clothing racks were dotted around the room; men's clothing on one side and women's on the other. Finally, the left side of the room consisted of dressing rooms and full length mirrors.

Arthur was stunned.

However, he was snapped out of his awe when he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. He turned abruptly to see a woman with shoulder length blonde hair and scrutinizing green eyes. She wore a pink dress shirt that was tucked into some tight-fitting, light grey jeans.

"So, like, this is what they bring me to work with?" She.. wait... no... That voice couldn't possibly be a woman's. It was too deep?

"Ah! Feliks!" Mr. Corriendo said, stepping up to clap a hand on her/his shoulder, "This Senor Kirkland. Senor Kirkland, this is Mr. Feliks Lukasiewicz."

_Mr...? No fucking way in Hell... _Arthur thought, praying he looked more collected than he felt.

"It's, like, _so _cool to meet you. But your clothes? Eww. They totally need an update, just saying." He said, tossing his blonde tresses out of his face.

Arthur clenched his teeth. He thought his outfit was rather presentable, if not rather attractive! This man was wearing skinny jeans for God's sake! And he was going to mock Arthur's attire?

"Oh don't so rude, Feliks."

The trio turned to observe Francis leaning in the doorway of the large so-called _style_ room. He languidly strolled over to them and placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

" Just because Monsieur Kirkland has different tastes from you does not mean you should openly attack his wardrobe," Francis said calmly.

_Maybe this Frenchman isn't so bad... _Arthur thought.

"Even if his clothes _are _a bit boring..."

_Nope. He's a frog... _Arthur groaned in his mind. Francis chuckled seeing Arthur's disgruntled expression and wrapped his long fingers around the Brit's wrist and drug him over to the men's clothing racks. Arthur's eyes shot open from the unforeseen contact and he swiftly yanked his arm away, rubbing at the abused appendage.

"I walk, thank you..." He muttered.

Francis, however, ignored him in favor of pulling various articles of clothing off the racks. He would occasionally hold them up to Arthur and turn to Feliks.

"What about this one?" He said, placing a pair of dark charcoal pants in front of Arthur's waist.

"That will, like, _totally _go with this!" Feliks replied holding up a tasteful red sweater.

This process went on for what felt like hours. Arthur seriously hated shopping, and if he recalled correctly, he had applied for a journalist's position, not a modeling position. However, while Francis and Feliks were frolicking about the clothing, Mr. Corriendo (or Antonio, as he insisted Arthur call him) had explained that the clothes they picked out would be Arthur's; no charge. This of course made Arthur uncomfortable. He was not one to free load and the thought of accepting fine clothes made his stomach ache. However, he knew that if he wanted to work here, it was best not to question his crazy, French boss' rules.

"See, mon cher? That wasn't that bad~" Francis said when they had finished.

Surprisingly, they had spent less time choosing Arthur's "new, chic wardrobe" than Arthur had thought, and though he'd never admit it aloud, he did like most of the clothes that were picked out. Yet Arthur was thoroughly relieved when Antonio led him from that room, announcing that they would be going to Arthur's new office and discussing the company's policies. Finally! Something within Arthur's comfort zone!

* * *

Arthur's office was magnificent. There was no other way he could describe it. It had a wonderful view of the skyline and city and it had the same, elegant desk as the one in Francis' office, only a bit smaller. Behind his desk was a maroon leather computer chair. The carpet was looked soft and was an eggshell white color. The walls were the color of sand; a light, warm tan.

Arthur loved every inch of the office.

Antonio encouraged him to sit so they could discuss details, and Arthur happily obliged, eagerly testing out his new chair. _Comfy... _Arthur mused.

Antonio scooted his chair (one of two brown wicker chairs with a maroon cushion) over to Arthur's desk and set papers down on the desk. He and Arthur immediately set to work.

* * *

Arthur walked into his apartment and fell ungracefully on his couch. He took a deep breath through his nose and was comforted by the smell of home.

It had been a long day and all he wanted was a warm dinner, some tea, and bed.

However, that meant he'd have to remove himself from his groove in the old couch. Slowly, Arthur pulled himself to his feet and trudged into the kitchen. He rummaged through his cupboards, and all he could find were some bags of Ramen Noodles and some plain crackers. He checked the fridge and there wasn't much there either. Ramen Noodles it was.

Arthur turned on his old, electric stove in his apartment's kitchen and set the water to boil. He had just opened the cracker package to snack on while the water warmed when he heard a knock at his door. He made his way to the entrance and looked through the peephole. On the other side stood a delivery man with a rather large box beside him. _That's strange..._He thought, _I haven't ordered anything as of late..._

He opened the door and politely greeted the man.

"You Arthur Kirkland?" He asked with a thick, Brooklyn accent.

"Yes, that's me." Arthur replied, eyeing the package.

"Gotta delivery for ya's. Sign here." The man said. He held out an electronic device and Arthur took it, using the stylus to sign his name on the screen.

"Thanks, bud. Need help gettin' this in your place?" He asked, but he had already lifted the package and pushed through the door way before Arthur could answer.

"Erm, thank you..." Arthur murmured.

"You's welcome, anytime!" The man said before leaving.

Arthur shut the door behind him and looked at the mysterious box. Although he was curious, he knew he'd have to attend his dinner. The box could wait.

After Arthur had finished his adequate meal, he focused his attention on the offending cardboard cube currently sitting in his den. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen and opened the box swiftly. Inside were the clothes that Francis and Feliks had picked out as well as a bottle of wine and a letter.

Arthur unfolded the note and scanned the words quickly,

_Dear Monsieur Kirkland, _

_I'm so pleased that you will be working for my company. As a sign of my pleasure, please accept this bottle of wine that came from my darling brother's winery in Italy. _

_Sincerely, _

_Francis Bonnefoy_

Arthur stared at the note. Was this bloke for real? First the clothes, and now this? A bottle of fine Italian wine and a personal, _handwritten _note? Arthur's thumbs pricked slightly. His eldest brother, Angus, had always told him that when his thumbs pricked, it was a sign that something was amiss. _  
_

_"When there's pricking of the thumbs, something wicked this way comes..."_ He would say to Arthur.

Arthur really hoped that in this case Angus was wrong. He needed this job.

With a sigh, Arthur held the bottle by the neck and took it into the kitchen and placed it in the fridge. He wasn't really a wine drinker, but Arthur never turned down good booze; it was his Achilles' heel. Arthur then made his way across his apartment to his bed room, where he quickly changed into his pajama's and slipped into bed, his pricking thumbs forgotten.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

Yoi! Chapter two is up!

First I'd like to address that I'm going to make up the UK brothers' names. I've found a few sources, but most of them were fan made, so I assumed that if I could find anything from Hidakez himself, then I'd make up my own.

Scotland: Angus  
Ireland: Patrick (I won't include North Ireland.)  
Wales: Charlie or Charles  
Australia: Liam or Dylan (Not sure yet, though I strongly lean towards Liam).  
Sealand: Peter (the only name I was certain of, but he might not be in this story... because I hate him.)

As for the pricking of the thumbs, I got that from _Enter Three Witches, _a story about a girl in the courts of Macbeth in Scotland. It's really good, you should read it. But when someone's thumbs prick, then it's a sign that something evil is lurking about.

**Reviewers:**

_Marinoa, Chelseaj500, 2, Miri-chan98, and 4 anonymous. _

**Thank you so much.**


	3. Dancing

The weeks passed by in a busy blur for Arthur. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so consumed in a job (he wasn't sure he wanted to refer his place in the company as a career just yet). His life had been completely transformed to wrap around his new, working world.

And he loved it.

He loved being busy. He loved routine. He loved showing up and having coworkers notice him. He loved opening a crisp smelling, glossy, published magazine and seeing his name accredited under several articles.

However, one thing that he was unsure about was his boss.

Despite the man's generosity, Arthur couldn't help but analyze his employer's every move. It had become a ritual of sorts for Francis to drop by Arthur's office at random during the working day. However, he never came before nine, and he never came later than four. It wasn't unusual that he would even drop by while Arthur was eating lunch (sometimes he even brought Arthur a salad or sandwich). The company of another human being was nice, but something about Francis set off a flashing red light in Arthur's mind. Often during their little visits, Arthur's thumbs would begin to prick and continue to do so until his employer left.

Arthur tried to pin it off as paranoia, but he couldn't completely deny that his pricking thumbs had never been wrong before… He summarized he would call Angus later and ask his opinion. Arthur chuckled at the thought of running to his eldest brother for advice; it seemed like only yesterday that Arthur had utterly loathed his brothers who in turn returned a mutual hatred. However, over the years they had slowly grown out of their childish rivalries and had managed to salvage could be called a friendship.

Arthur looked at his watch after stirring from his memories of his brothers to be greeted by the watch hands resting on the twelve and five. He stood from his desk after organizing it, stretched (he was stiff from sitting for too long), and grabbed his zip drive so he could get some work done over the weekend. He briskly left his office, taking precise care to make sure the door was locked, and then he set off down the long corridor to the elevator.

"Hold the door, please!" He called out, quickening his pace.

"Huh? Oh sure thing, amigo!" Came the familiar voice of Antonio.

"Hurry up! We don't have all day!" shouted the less welcome voice of Gilbert.

Arthur slipped into the elevator with the two men, grateful that he didn't have to wait. Arthur hated waiting.

"Thanks for that, chap." Arthur said to Antonio.

"De nada." He said cheerily.

Arthur smiled in acknowledgement, taking a moment to register that "de nada" meant "thank you" in Spanish. He hadn't taken many foreign languages courses during his schooling, only a few years of French ironically enough (none of which he remembered or cared to).

"Hey. Losah Brit! We're going parting tonight. You want in on the awesomeness?" Gilbert asked, ribbing Arthur with his elbow.

Arthur scowled and inched away from the offending arm, "No thank you, I don't party." He mumbled.

"Come on! It'll be fun!" Gilbert insisted, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Si! I'll buy you una cerveza!" Antonio added.

Arthur bit his lip in thought. He had never been one to party, not even during his college days. He had been to a party once with his brothers while he was visiting home in England, however he only remembered arriving. His brother's claimed that after only three gin and tonics he was down for the count, but Arthur didn't believe them. They were probably just bluffing to make him feel inferior. And it had been some time since he had gone out and had a good time…

"I suppose that it wouldn't hurt…" He muttered while sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

"Awesome! Maybe you're not so lame after all, Brit." Gilbert snickered while he held the elevator door open.

"Gee, thanks…" Arthur said with a roll of his eyes.

"We'll text you when we're on our way to pick you up." Antonio said with a smile as he ushered Gilbert away from the fuming Brit.

"Yes. Thank you, see you later." Arthur said politely.

"Later!" they said in unison.

He couldn't help but smile as he saw Gilbert make a beeline for Elizabeta and Antonio desperately try to reason with him after Arthur split away from them. He wasn't sure who he felt sorry for in that situation, Gilbert, Elizabeta, or that "Rodreich" fellow.

Either way, it wasn't his business and he had to figure out if he had any clubbing clothes for that night…

THE music was loud and thumping and though Arthur hated to admit it, the beat was contagious. He had tried to stand by the wall, but Gilbert quickly dashed any hopes of that.

"You need to dance! Come on! Shake it!" He bellowed over the roar of the crowd and the blasting American pop music.

"Oh Gilbert we are not all as eager as you, maybe he needs some liquid encouragement?"

Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt two hands firmly plant themselves on his shoulders.

"Glad to see you made it, Frenchie! We were getting worried!" Gilbert shouted, "Antonio is already lining the ladies!"

"Oui, I'm glad I made it too…" Francis replied, eyeing Arthur.

Arthur felt tiny under this man's scrutinizing gaze. He knew that Francis was appraising his outfit; dark, tight jeans, a Union Jack t-shirt, and some old red sneakers. Francis' eyes seem to linger on his choice of pants, creating a slightly uncomfortable feeling in Arthur's gut.

"Come, let's get you a drink." Francis said, grasping Arthur's hand.

He drug Arthur across the throbbing bodies to the bar where he ordered some kind of fruity drink. Arthur would normally never touch such a feminine drink, however Francis highly recommended it and he _had _paid for it, so it would be rude to turn down Arthur reasoned. He sipped at it and was pleasantly surprised. It was strong, but delicious none the less.

Francis watched the Brit from the corner of his eye as he sipped at his own drink. Once Arthur had finished the beverage, Francis took his hand again, succeeding in getting a jump from the young man.

"Let's dance." Francis ordered.

Arthur nodded, his head swimming a bit. Maybe his brothers hadn't been bluffing about his alcohol capacity, but he didn't have much time to dwell on it because once he was on the dance floor his mind almost instantly became detached from his body. He began moving his hips in a circular motion and he had his hands in the air.

"Looks like the stick in the mud finally came to the party!" Gilbert cackled over the music.

Had there been no alcohol in his system, Arthur would probably had found it strange that Gilbert had managed to "find" Elizabeta in the club and was grinding up on her. However, he was more interested in the fact that Francis had returned to the dance floor with two cups. He handed one to Arthur and leaned down to where his lips were touching the younger man's ear.

"Drink up." He said, his lips brushed by Arthur's ear lobe with each work.

Arthur shuddered and felt that strange discomfort in the pit of his stomach. He sipped at the drink and felt the warmth of his burn his throat. This drink was much stronger than the last drink, but Arthur could hardly care. As he downed the last drop, he felt someone take the cup out of his hand. He looked to see Francis smirking and holding the snatched, plastic cup. He tossed it away and moved closer to Arthur. He gently gripped Arthur's hips and turned him around to where the younger man's backside was pressed up against his groin. Arthur gasped at the sudden grinding again his bottom and the warmth of another body against his own.

But he didn't fight it.

Instead he began to roll his hips into Francis' to the beat blasting over the speakers. The room was spinning and faces blurred together, but Arthur didn't care… until he looked over his shoulder and saw the person who was stirring the strange emotions inside of Arthur was his boss. _He was letting his boss hump and grind on him._

"I need to go… Now." Arthur stated, panicked.

He tried to quickly get away from the Frenchmen, but he stumbled and the room began to spin out of control. Firm hands caught him and hoisted him back onto his feet.

"I will take you home, mon cher." Francis said as he led (and half carried) Arthur towards the exit.

They reached the parking lot and though Arthur wasn't sure when, they finally reached Francis' car. Francis opened the door and ushered Arthur in, buckled him in, and shut the car door. He got in the driver's seat and started up the engine.

"Where do you live?" Francis asked Arthur, something in his voice seemed annoyed.

Arthur gave his address, though slurred, and Francis quickly pulled out of the parking lot and made his way into the night.


	4. Arthur's Flat

"Left or right?" Francis asked as they came to a stop light.

Arthur lolled his head over to look at Francis in the driver's seat. The French man seemed irritated, and Arthur had a hunch why, but his mind was foggy and continually slipped in and out of coherent thought.

"Arthur! Do we go left or right?" Francis repeated, turning to look at the drunken man in his passenger seat.

"A left…" Arthur drawled and pointed towards the correct direction.

Francis managed to pry the last few directions out of Arthur with some difficulty (he hadn't realized how easy it was to intoxicate the Brit; he'd have to remember that for future reference…) and managed to arrive to the Englishman's apartment complex safely. Francis parked the car, got out and went over to Arthur's side of the car. He opened the door and reached over Arthur.

"Don't squirm!" Francis hissed as fiddled with the seat buckle.

However, in his dazed mind, Arthur hadn't heard the command and continued to try and scoot away from the French man (who had suddenly become too close for comfort) only to be confined by some evil force. Oh. Oh yeah. He was wearing his seat belt. Had he been the one to buckle himself in? He didn't remember putting it on.

"Had I known you would have caused this much trouble, I wouldn't have bothered with the seat belt…" Francis muttered as he held Arthur's wrists in one of his hands.

Oh, so that was how the offending restraint found itself strapped across Arthur's chest. Hold on; was the Frenchman really able trap both of his wrists in one hand? Arthur stopped pondering his tiny wrists when he heard Francis heave a sigh. He had managed to finally unclick the seatbelt and he began carefully pulling Arthur out of the car. Arthur gathered enough sense not to fight the man and allowed Francis to help him out of the car.

Francis firmly wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist then slung Arthur's arm over his shoulders (which was awkward because of the height difference, but at least it steadied the Brit). They walked, albeit unsteadily, in the direction of Arthur's apartment. Francis was thankful that he lived on the first level and there were no stairs to climb.

"Give me your keys." Francis commanded, holding out his hand expectantly.

Arthur used his free hand to dig through his pockets and pulled out his key chain. He then handed them to Francis without any argument. Francis opened the door and led the drunken Brit inside.

He first sat Arthur down on the old sofa and commanded him to stay, and then he made his way into the kitchen. Francis couldn't help but pity the Briton; he lived in such small, scarcely decorated living space compared to Francis' lavish pent house in uptown New York (not to mention his real home back in France…)

The Frenchman didn't dwell on the living space long as his new train of thought consisted of finding food to give to the Brit in the den. Francis felt he responsible for making sure Arthur didn't wake up with _too _bad of a hangover; it _was_ somewhat his fault… He opened the pantry door only to be greeted by a few canned fruits and vegetables. He tried the cupboards and only found some cereal and several (too many in Francis' opinion) boxes of tea. He finally found a quarter of loaf of bread and decided a sandwich would make a decent snack for the man on the couch.

He opened the fridge and frowned. It contained some leftovers, however, Francis wasn't even sure if they were edible; some of the contents looked like they would come to life and slither off if the lid was removed. Francis didn't hesitate to throw them out; Arthur could thank him later.

Francis grew more frustrated as he continued to scan the contents (or lack thereof) in the fridge. The man had no deli meat, no salad ingredients, nothing! How did he survive?! Francis went to slam the fridge door when he heard a clink. He looked in the door and recognized the familiar green bottle.

Gingerly, Francis removed the unopened bottle of wine that he had given to Arthur as a present. He smiled; he was glad that at least the Brit knew that the wine was best chilled, but he needed food, not more alcohol. However, Francis set the wine on the counter… just in case.

He then opened the freezer and exhaled a sigh of relief. Within the icy box were plenty of frozen dinners and though Francis would _almost never _stoop to eating something that was so processed, he decided it was his best and, consequently, only option. He pulled out two of the most appetizing sounding, rock-hard meals and prepared them in the microwave. When finished, he found Arthur's silverware and plates and scooped the contents from their plastic containers onto a plate. _Maybe if they are on a plate, _he thought, _I won't feel like gagging after the first bite… _He then pulled out two wine glasses; if Arthur was already drunk, then _one _more glass couldn't hurt.

Francis set the table then went back into the den to fetch Arthur, who had fallen asleep in a semi-upright position on the couch. The Frenchman took that time to study the sleeping Brit: his slim figure, narrow hips, and porcelain skin. He had a messy mop of blonde hair, but it made him seem edgy. The only flaw were those _eyebrows…_ Francis made a note to convince him to get them trimmed.

He gently shook Arthur, who bolted upright proclaiming, "I'm awake! I'm awake!"

Francis chuckled at the display and took him by the arm then hoisted him off the old sofa and into the kitchen. Arthur looked at the food on the plate with dull confusion before deciding it wasn't worth the effort to figure out how Francis had managed to arrange a meal; he hadn't been the grocery in some time and usually went out. He had tried cooking several times, but his landlord threatened to evict him if he tried cooking one last time…

The two ate in silence. Arthur hadn't realized how hungry he had been and tried his best not to shovel the food into his mouth. He eyed the glass of wine cautiously before taking a sip. He nodded appreciatively after he took the glass away from his lips; the blend was exquisite and Arthur didn't even really like wine.

"Do you like it?" Francis asked eager to hear Arthur's response.

Arthur nodded, "Tell your brother it's very good. I don't even like wine."

Francis seemed to glow with delight, "Bon! I will be sure to tell him!"

Arthur smiled slightly; the kind of smile that seems genuine even if the one giving it is more than slightly intoxicated. Francis couldn't help but feel his heart melt at the sight. Arthur raised the glass to his lips again, and the Frenchman watched eagerly as perfectly smooth lips sipped the dark red liquid from cool, clear glass. Francis placed his elbows on the table and laced his fingers, then rested his chin on his hands and contently observed Arthur. It was interesting how different the man was when his mind was clouded with alcohol. The man Francis had hired was straight-laced and no fun and he appeared to be an introverted bookworm. Yet the man in front of him was completely at ease and oblivious.

"What are you staring at?" Arthur pondered aloud between bites, one magnificent eyebrow raised.

_Perhaps he isn't oblivious…_ Francis thought at he composed a reply, "Oh nothing," he said, sipping at his wine with a smirk, "just admiring the color of your cheeks…"

At this, Arthur's face immediately darkened into a rosy plum color beautifully accenting his wide, confused emerald eyes. Francis chortled as Arthur desperately sputtered and scrambled for an intelligible response. However, the more he tried to redeem himself, the more flustered and unsure he became until he finally gave up with Francis laughing all the while.

"Don't patronize me, frog!" Arthur finally spat, his emerald eyes burning with humiliation and inebriation.

"And how do you plan to stop me, mon ami?" Francis asked, a hint of challenge laced his tone.

Arthur took the bait and his eyes narrowed as he tried to stand. Francis couldn't help but chuckle at the shorter man's attempt to look intimidating, yet he knew it probably wouldn't be the best idea to feed Arthur's growing frustrations. With a sigh of resignation, he stood and held his hands up in surrender.

"I see you're getting cranky, mon cher, so I believe it's time for bed." Francis stated.

Arthur seemed unsure for a moment, too slowed by his current alcohol levels to comprehend the quick change in atmosphere. He didn't resist when Francis took him by the arm and gently led him to his room.

"Shoes off." Francis ordered.

Arthur obeyed and fumbled with his laces until he was finally able to kick his shoes off. Francis then helped him shrug out of his coat. Francis then gently pushed him down onto the bed and pulled the blankets over him.

"Get some sleep this weekend. I expect to see you at work bright and early ce lundi matin!" Francis purred with a wink.

Arthur nodded slightly before a yawn escaped his lips and his eyes slid closed. Francis smiled slightly as he watched Arthur's face become peaceful as he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. Quickly and quietly, he slipped out of the apartment and into his car. As he drove down the empty, dark streets in his sleek, royal blue, imported sports car, he imagined all the ways he could tease Arthur about the night the following Monday… and how he could make it happen more often.

Author's Note

Well it's been quite some time hasn't it my lovely readers? Yet here is a new chapter just in time for the New Year. I would say my resolution is to try to write more, but I would be lying because I'm about to start my second semester of college and sometimes my writing gets pushed back because of homework, writing blocks, and of course the occasional party.

I'm sorry if you believed this was a dead story and then realized it wasn't and were excited because I updated but now you are disappointed that it wasn't a very exciting chapter. I've been in and out of the fandom lately because I rediscovered how fucking awesome Transformers is. *huge deep breath* And that has been my life so far.

Again, I apologize for the long span between updates. I am a terrible person.


	5. Grocery shopping

Arthur awoke to sun beams and an agonizing headache. He internally cursed himself for being such a light weight and vowed never to drink again (a vow he knew he'd never keep). He reluctantly looked at the clock which read that it was well past lunch time and he had wasted most of the day by sleeping.

Arthur begrudgingly kicked the covers off of himself and looked down to see that he was in his pajamas. He didn't remember changing in them last and he most certainly wasn't sure why his clothes were neatly folded on top of the dresser. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure he remembered how he got home; the entire night had been a blur. He racked his brain for possible answers, but the harder he thought the more the memories of the previous night fled to far recesses of his mind, and consequently, worsened his headache.

After a quick shower, Arthur moved into the kitchen looking for something that he could fashion into a nice warm breakfast. As he searched, he made sure to set his kettle over the stove so that by the time he found something his water would already be boiling and he could sip at piping hot tea while he cooked breakfast. By the time the steam whistling out of the pot however, there was nothing to be found. Arthur grumbled as he wrote down on a list that he would need groceries for the week.

_So much for spending the day trying to recover from this bloody hangover…_ Arthur thought to himself as he pulled a plain dark grey v-necked shirt over his head. He had to look for his wallet, keys, and cell phones because they weren't where he usually left them. He eventually found his wallet on his dresser under the folded clubbing clothes (Why in hell had he folded them…?) and his keys were in one of the pockets of his coat from the previous night. What consistently evaded him though was his phone. He had searched every possible nook and cranny in every inch of the apartment and still couldn't find it.

"Blast it all…" The cranky Englishman muttered to himself before storming out the door towards the bus stop.

Arthur was grateful that the local grocery store was never busy; he would always prefer a quaint little store as opposed to an overwhelming supermarket. He nonchalantly perused the aisles as the ibuprofen kicked in and the side effects of his nasty hangover began to subside. He strolled through the store plucking an item from the shelf every once in a while. It was a mundane task, but it was relaxing enough for Arthur; he decided that he would rather be on autopilot and bored than suffer another blackout night.

The British man was inspecting some crisp-looking apples when he heard a familiar chuckle.

"Quelle chance! I would 'ave never thought I would run into you today~"

Arthur's eyes widened as he realized who had been speaking to him.

_Bloody fucking hell that's just my luck that __**he **__would be here of all places…_ Arthur thought trying to keep his composer together.

"Oh… Mr. Bonnefoy. What a pleasant surprise." Arthur said. He took care to make sure his voice sounded less shocked and more polite, cordial, and businesslike.

Arthur knew his monotonous tone voice wasn't enough to convince the man that he was not completely composed; the Frenchman's eyes glittered with amusement and his slips curled into a knowing smirk. He left his cart to saunter over the Briton who had amusingly returned to his tense and rigid self. Francis took Arthur's hand and placed his other hand delicately on Arthur's upper arm. Arthur stiffened from the unpredicted contact and fought the urge to flinch away and jerk his hand back.

"Arthur," Francis began, his face resembled that of a parent about to gently scold a child with his eyebrows slight drawn up and his mouth a thin line, "What have I told you about addressing me so formally?"

Arthur, unsure how to respond, simply nodded. Francis' lips curled up into a playful smirk and he pulled away.

"You are so shy, mon cher," Francis chuckled, "It is adorable."

At this, Arthur's face immediately flushed and he turned away in an attempt to salvage a bit of dignity. Hurriedly, he readjusted the grocery basket on his arm as he scrambled to regain himself. The task felt impossible to do with those piercing blue eyes watching his every little move.

"Of course. My apologies, _Francis_." Arthur ground out with a strained smile.

"Much better; that wasn't so hard was it?" Francis said coyly.

Arthur wasn't sure what it was about this man, but something about the Frenchman caused Arthur to want nothing more than to wrap his thin hands around the other's neck and strangle him. Maybe it was the smug little smirk that was always playing on his lips or the way his scrutinizing eyes were always lingering on Arthur. It could have been the way Francis always looked down his nose at the shorter man. Perhaps it was the fact the fact that this man had no earthly idea what "personal space" meant and the significance it possessed to Arthur. Whatever it was, it caused Arthur's skin to tighten and crawl each and every time Arthur bumped into him outside of the workplace (Arthur could stand him at the office if only it was because this man signed his paychecks).

The most unfathomable part of it all was that Arthur knew that Francis wasn't even that _bad. _Sure the man was arrogant touchy and flamboyant, but he had never given Arthur any reason to hate him.

Arthur began subconsciously rub his thumbs against his index fingers. Oh yes. That was another thing that made Arthur weary of Francis; each time Arthur came into contact with Francis his thumbs would begin to prick like tiny needles. It happened every time without fail.

That had to account for something right?

Arthur pulled himself away from this thoughts long enough to mutter a noncommittal "no" to Francis's previous question. Francis simply chuckled; another thing Arthur was bothered by. It wasn't even because the laugh was annoying or unpleasant. It was quite the opposite; Arthur found Francis' chuckle a pleasing sound indeed. Something about it made his spine tingle and it unnerved the young man.

"I hate to run, but I really should be going…" Arthur stated, desperately seeking an escape.

Francis hiked a finely shaped eyebrow at the Briton and his lips quirked into a smirk before he spoke.

"Oh I understand, but before you go, I must ask you something." Francis said. His voice held a playful undertone.

"And that would be?" Arthur asked with a piqued interest despite the young man's attempt to smother the curiously aroused by the older man's tone.

"Have you been missing your phone?" Francis asked.

Arthur's eyes widened and his mouth formed a small "o" shape as Francis reached into his pocket and revealed a small, old, scratched, and hopelessly outdated flip phone. Seeing the smirk on Francis's face and the phone in his hand caused a surge of foggy memories to gain a sudden clarity.

Francis had been at the club. Francis had bought him drinks. He had danced on Francis. _Francis had taken him home and now he had his phone. _

He had danced on Francis.

He had gotten utterly shit-faced and danced on Francis.

_He had gotten utterly shit-faced and danced on his __**boss. **_

Arthur felt the bile churn in his gut at he stared at Francis in barely subdued horror. Francis smiled back innocently while he held the phone in front of the younger man's face. The Frenchman watched as the haze lifted from Arthur's mind and he amused himself with the radically shifting expressions on the Briton's face. First there was confusion, then shock, then a flash of denial, followed by realization, then pure horror.

"You are a marvelous dancer, Arthur Kirkland." Francis said with a wink, confirming Arthur's worst fears.

Arthur's heart was racing and he felt the grip of a panic attack tightening around his throat. A ruddy red color had spread from the tips of his ears, across his cheeks and nose, and down his slender neck. He was only snapped back into reality when he felt a gentle touch on his hand. Francis held Arthur's hand steady. With the other hand, he placed the phone into Arthur's palm, but kept his hand there. He kept his gaze steady and held Arthur's uneasy gaze steady. Arthur wanted to break away and run from the store, hide in his flat and never crawl out of bed for the rest of his life, but he couldn't. He was frozen by those blue eyes.

"I'm going to give you your phone, but only on one condition." Francis said.

"Y-yes?" Arthur responded with a trembling voice.

"You must let cook you dinner tonight. I simply wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing I let you try to feed yourself; those leftover were terrifying."

Arthur stopped shaking. He stared. What…? _What? _

"Excuse me…?" Arthur asked incredulously.

Francis's eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a challenging smirk. With one swift motion, he yanked his hand back taking the phone with it.

"Let me cook for you. You clearly can't feed yourself. Frozen dinners, Arthur? I mean, really?" Francis chuckled.

Arthur just stared. Normally he would be infuriated, but it was as if that near-panic attack had sapped all of his energy and all Arthur was left with was dull surprise.

"I…" Arthur began before he could shake all of shock from his system, "I'm not so sure that is a good idea…"

"Porquoi no?" Francis asked with a small smile.

"My landlord says that if I try to cook one more time he'll kick me out. I keep telling him the bloody stove is faulty…" Arthur muttered quietly.

"Oh but it won't be you who is cooking but me." Francis countered, "Besides, you want your phone back, no?" he teased.

Arthur bit his lip in uncertainty. This wasn't right. This was so, so wrong. His boss wanted to cook for him and had insulted his cooking and the worst part was he wasn't mad (Arthur decided that it must be another side effect of the hangover). Yet he knew he needed his phone back, and it _would _be nice to have a home cooked meal…

"Alright… Just this once." Arthur said, succumbing to the Frenchman's will.

Francis's eyes lit up excited and he grabbed Arthur hand and began to drag him towards the checkout counters.

"Excellent! I know just the dish!" He said.

Arthur felt a blush creep across his cheeks as he was dragged across the grocery store by his rambling boss who was apparently going to make him dinner. He knew this was wrong. So, so wrong , yet he found a pleasant knotting feeling in his stomach overpowering his pricking thumbs…

_Author's Note_

_Short chapter is short. _

_I'm sorry I've been gone so long. I've just been really focused on school and writing has been sort of hard for me lately. _

_I also fell out of the Hetalia fandom for a few months because I rediscovered Transformers (Damn you Hasbro and Transformers Prime!) Anyways, here is an update. I'm on Spring break and afterwards I'll only have a month left of school, so I'll try to pump out some chapters. _

_Thank you for your patience, _

_Germerica. _


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